


retro love

by lilcrickee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilcrickee/pseuds/lilcrickee
Summary: Technically, there’s nothing wrong with Philadelphia. They’ve been a good team for the last five years and have a plethora of draft picks that are developing well. They’re poised for a deep playoff run this year if everyone can stay healthy.Removing technicalities, there is one thing wrong with Philadelphia. Or, rather, one person.





	retro love

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [taxingme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taxingme/pseuds/taxingme) in the [PuckingRare2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2018) collection. 



> i've been toying with this idea for ages now, so i was super excited to see a prompt that would basically kick me into actually writing this fic. i'm not sure if it turned out quite the way i envisioned it, but here we are!
> 
> unbeta'd. if you see any glaring mistakes, let me know.
> 
> title taken from the shinee song of the same name.

The phone calls shouldn’t surprise him anymore.

Like most of the other times, it’s a sunny day when his agent calls. Lawson’s flaked out in a lawn chair at the cabin, watching his nieces go charging into the lake armed with pool noodles and beach balls. It’s nice.

His ringtone is some eclectic French-Canadian pop song that one of his teammates had set during the season, and it sounds weird against the background of shrieking children and chirping birds. Lawson takes one look at the caller ID, sighs, and answers the phone.

“The draft is today,” Andy says in lieu of greeting.

“I stopped keeping up with the draft a while ago,” Lawson replies. It makes him sound like an old, bitter retiree instead of a 27-year-old player in his prime.

“Well, you should’ve this year. You’ve been traded.”

Honestly, Lawson was expecting it. There had been murmurs all year about moving him out of Montreal. Low production; not being physical enough; being _too_ physical; then an injury. The Habs had taken a chance on him and it hadn’t panned out. Lawson gets it. 

Still, something heavy settles into the pit of his stomach as he listens to his agent relay the news. Montreal had traded their second and fifth round picks for another first rounder, courtesy of San Jose. San Jose was trying to flip their two second round picks for a different first round pick, but only one team was willing to trade, and only if San Jose could get a player from Montreal out of the deal.

The player was Lawson.

“And where did I end up?” Lawson drawls. In the lake, one of his nieces dunks her sister under the water. Lawson waits with bated breath until she resurfaces. Sarah probably would not be very happy if he let one of her kids drown this early into summer vacation.

It’s been a long time since Lawson’s had a vacation. He seldom feels like he deserves them, spends more time in the gym and less time relaxing, all in the hopes of sticking with a team longer than a season. It’s exhausting, moving cities every year. When he had been drafted, Lawson hadn’t thought he’d live in so many places across North America. He’d naively thought he’d stick with Florida for a long time, and in the end they’d traded him before they even gave him a chance.

“Lawson? Hello?”

It takes Lawson a moment to realize he’d tuned Andy out. He’d tuned everything out, really. His nieces are yelling again, splashing each other in the water. The porch door slams shut, even though Lawson’s mum has been telling them all for years not to let it bang closed. Footsteps on the deck as someone approaches.

“No, sorry, I missed that,” Lawson says as Sarah appears next to him. She hands him a glass of lemonade and then sinks into the empty lawn chair, eyeing her children carefully. Lawson lets himself relax.

“I said, ‘You’re going to Philadelphia.’”

Lawson knocks his lemonade over, the sound of the plastic cup cracking mixing in with the cacophony of other afternoon noises.

 

 

Technically, there’s nothing wrong with Philadelphia. They’ve been a good team for the last five years and have a plethora of draft picks that are developing well. They’re poised for a deep playoff run this year if everyone can stay healthy.

Removing technicalities, there is one thing wrong with Philadelphia. Or, rather, one person.

Lawson hasn’t properly spoken to Travis in three years, and it’s been at least a year since they were last forced to exchange pleasantries at a family get together. That’s the problem with intertwining his life so thoroughly with someone: it’s hard to untangle.

Nothing had really happened. It wasn’t explosive, but slow. Like a creek running dry. Lawson knows it was his fault, that he had been the one to dam the water while Travis had been swimming upstream trying to get to him. Eventually, the water had run out, and there’d been nothing left for Travis to swim in, so he’d given up.

That’s fair. Lawson had almost given up too.

He shows up at the Flyers head office a few days after the phone call with Andy, mostly just to sort out paperwork and look around the city. He’ll come back in July - probably with his mum - to scope out the city, find somewhere to live, meet some of his new teammates. He’s done this before. It’s just rinse and repeat now. 

“Lawson, glad to have you,” Hextall says, shaking Lawson’s hand when he walks in the door. Andy is already there, sitting in one of the seats in front of the desk. He nods at Lawson, but doesn’t stand to greet him. Another part of the routine.

“Good to be here,” Lawson replies. “Thanks for wanting me.”

Hextall spews the same speech that Lawson’s been listening to since he started out on these one-year contracts. Buzzwords like “potential” and “good fit” seem to get tossed around a lot. Lawson merely nods and pretends like he’s listening.

Eventually, paperwork is slid across the desk. Lawson’s already looked over the PDF copy that Andy had sent him the day before, and Andy has looked over it as well and deemed it acceptable. All Lawson has to do is sign on the dotted line, which he does with much less flourish than when he’d signed his ELC almost 10 years ago.

“Excellent,” Hextall says when Lawson pushes the paperwork back towards him. “Like I said earlier, super excited to have you here. I think some of the guys are still in town if you need anything. I’m sure they’d love to get to know you and show you around.”

“Thanks,” Lawson says. He knows this part well. Spend a night out drinking beer with some of his new teammates, and then retreat back to Toronto for a few weeks before coming back down to find a place to live. Somewhere in all that time, Lawson will be initiated into a group chat and someone will recommend a neighbourhood or an apartment complex that Lawson should look into. Lawson will take the advice, follow the realtor around like a lost puppy, and likely rent the first place he looks at. He’ll sign a one-year lease that he won’t renew because he won’t be in the same city by the time the contract is up.

“In fact, I think one of them is here now. He said he wanted to help out.”

Hextall’s got this weird look on his face, like he’s swallowed a particularly sweet candy and he can’t get the taste out of his mouth. Lawson offers him a curt nod and a handshake before he stands and exits the room with Andy hot on his heels.

He shouldn’t be surprised to see Travis outside the office, but he is anyway.

Travis hasn’t changed very much since the last time they saw each other in passing, but it’s been a long time since they’ve talked properly and part of Lawson still invisions Travis as a teenager mostly. His hair is cut shorter than when they had been young and there are faint smile lines around his mouth. He’s also finally given up on growing a beard, even though now it probably could look respectable instead of like just a smudge of dirt on his face. He looks the same, but different. Grown up.

“Hi,” Lawson says. 

“Hi,” Travis parrots back. He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the carpet of the hallway, runs a hand over his hair. When it was longer, Travis would push it back, but now that it’s cut short there’s nothing for him to run his hand through, really. Still, the nervous habit persists. 

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Lawson says. Beside him, Andy shifts from foot to foot, pats him on the shoulder, and mutters something about seeing Lawson later for dinner. Then he disappears down the hall, the tension chasing him out of the conversation. 

Travis watches Andy go, and then shrugs. “I’m the captain,” he says. “I do this for all the new guys.”

That also shouldn’t surprise Lawson. Travis has been captain for the last two seasons. He’s been a captain on a lot of teams, teams that Lawson has played on before, but it still makes something in his stomach knot, tight and angry. Disappointed. 

“Well, thanks,” he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

Travis sighs, shakes his head. He stares at the floor, and then up at the ceiling, and then he finally meets Lawson’s gaze. His mouth is set in a tight line. “C’mon,” he says finally. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Lawson looks at his watch. It’s barely past noon. “Now?”

Travis rolls his eyes. “You think you want to do this sober?”

Lawson follows Travis out of the building.

 

 

The thing is, they never dated. There was never a an ugly breakup because there was never a getting together. But it was all the shit that got left unsaid that bothered Lawson the most. The coy glances and the loud laughter and the way they always fit together. It was the wanting, and in the end, it turned out that Travis hadn’t wanted him after all.

The text messages became sparse, and the phone calls were missed. Lawson hadn’t thought much of it at the time; they were both adjusting to the NHL and it wasn’t uncommon for them to go for long periods of time without speaking. They’d catch up when the ‘Yotes played Philly again. 

But there had been a girl; a beautiful girl that looked like she’d stepped straight out of an Instagram photo, and she and Travis had looked - good. They’d looked good together, and everything that Lawson had thought he and Travis could have been disappeared in a haze of Marc Jacobs perfume.

They hadn’t talked much after that, which had mostly been Lawson’s doing. He’d been heartbroken and distracted and his hockey was - not great. Three more seasons with the Coyotes and then he’d been shipped off and from there, the cycle never seemed to end. 

Now he’s back in Philadelphia, but this time he’s part of the team. Almost full circle, Lawson thinks wistfully as he pokes at the lime wedge he’d dropped into his gin and tonic.

“How’s the fam?” Travis asks. He’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle, shredding it into tiny pieces that the waitress will not doubt be pissed about. 

“They’re fine,” Lawson replies. “Sarah’s managed to sign the girls up for every activity under the sun so she’s busy chauffeuring them all around.”

Travis laughs and shakes his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen them,” he admits. “I think Abby was still a baby the last time I saw them.”

Abby’s three now, Lawson thinks wistfully. She can walk and talk and has a personality. It’s hard to even remember what she’d been like as a baby.

“You could stop in and say hi sometime.”

“I don’t think that’d go over very well,” Travis says, laughing a little. There’s no humour behind it. “I haven’t spoken to Sarah in a while.”

Which is a thinly veiled attempt at telling Lawson that Sarah chewed Travis out the last time they spoke and now they’re not speaking at all. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The radio is playing some old Drake song that Lawson hasn’t heard in years. It seems fitting, to be listening to a nostalgic song while sitting with a person that’s mostly become part of Lawson’s past.

“I’m glad you ended up here,” Travis says, finally breaking the silence. Lawson glances up.

“Yeah?”

Travis shrugs. “I always wanted to play with you,” he says. “The only times we ever did were Ivan Hlinka and World Juniors. I wanted to play with you for real, and now here you are.”

It’s confusing, to say the least. Lawson isn’t quite sure how he should feel right now. Part of him wants to be vindictive and petty, but a bigger part of him is tired of being angry. 

“Well, I’ll try to make the most of it, then,” Lawson says. When Travis looks up from his beer, he offers Lawson a small smile. It’s tentative, in a way that Travis never used to be with him, and Lawson huffs out a sigh. 

Looks like he’ll have a lot more work to do this off-season than just the usual training.

 

 

Lawson’s barely stepped through the door of his apartment in London when Kyla is barging in right behind him.

“I shouldn’t have given you a key,” he says, dropping his carry-on near the washing machine. When he spots the takeout bags in Kyla’s hands he adds, “I take it back. Mi casa es su casa.”

In a remarkable show of self-restraint, Kyla doesn’t say anything until they’ve got the food set up on the coffee table and Lawson’s brought plates and cutlery from the kitchen. They probably won’t use the plates, but it’s a nice thought, like pretending to be adults. 

“So, Philly,” Kyla says just as Lawson’s shoved an entire deep fried prawn into his mouth. It gives him a moment to carefully think through his answer.

“I didn’t actually have a choice on the matter,” he says when he’s swallowed. “I was traded.”

Kyla’s mouth flattens out into a thin line as she contemplates her choices of food. “Still,” she says. “I thought they would’ve been on your no-trade list.”

Three years ago it was, but Lawson had it removed by Christmas. He doesn’t mention this to Kyla.

“When you bounce around as much as I do, you can’t really afford to have teams on your no-trade list,” he opts for instead. This makes Kyla frown even harder.

“I swear, if they gave you proper ice time this wouldn’t be a problem,” she mutters. 

Lawson shrugs. He picks up a container of chop suey and fishes around in it for the broccoli he knows Kyla won’t eat. “It is what it is,” he says.

Kyla puts her fork down and for a moment, Lawson’s afraid she’s going to knock the takeout box straight out of his hand. “That’s the biggest pile of bullshit ever,” she says, and then smacks his knee instead. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Uh,” Lawson says, carefully putting his container down. He finished the broccoli anyway. “Fuck you too?”

Kyla runs a hand through her hair and huffs. “This is so exactly like you and I hate it.”

Lawson feels lost, the entire conversation flying over his head. He stares blankly at his sister and waits for her to continue.

“You always sell yourself short,” Kyla says, twirling her fork through the chow mein. “You always have, but since you’ve been moving around so much you do this thing where you just - just - let people walk all over you like a goddamn doormat! Where’s your spine?”

Lawson opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He’s not quite sure what to say. Finally, he settles on, “Is that what you think? What you’ve always thought?”

Kyla deflates, like all the wind has been let out of her sails. She shakes her head. “No,” she says finally. “Just lately. It’s like I don’t quite know you anymore, Law. You’re so sad all the time.”

That’s not - untrue, Lawson figures. He’s not constantly depressed or anything, but a lot of the optimism and spark he had when he’d first entered the league is gone. It’d be nice to have it back.

“I know things between you and TK haven’t been good for awhile,” Kyla says quietly, “but will you try in Philly? Really try to just. Love yourself or something?”

Lawson wants to laugh, but Kyla looks disheartened enough without Lawson adding insult to injury. He wants to tell Kyla yes, sure he’ll do his best to be nicer to himself or whatever, but the task seems daunting. He’s spent so long wallowing in his own self-pity, he’s not quite sure how to fix it.

“I’ll try,” he finally settles on. It’s the least he can do, considering his sister brought him dinner. 

 

 

The rest of the summer passes in a bit of a blur. Lawson splits his time between the cabin, the gym, and the streets of Philadelphia with a realtor. It’s not a bad way to pass the offseason, but he’s still relieved when he packs up his things and heads south for training camp. The routine of the season will hopefully give him some semblance of having his life put together.

Lawson’s walked into enough new locker rooms the past few seasons that he thinks he should probably be used to it by now, but his heart still thuds in his chest as he walks into the room. He recognizes most of the guys, having played against them at one time or another, so it’s not like it’s a room full of strangers. And, of course, there’s Travis, but Lawson tries not to look in his direction.

They haven’t really talked since their day-drinking adventure the day Lawson signed his paperwork back in the early parts of the summer. Just a couple of texts that reported Travis running into Sarah at the grocery store, which Lawson is certain must have been supremely awkward. 

But this is the year that Lawson promised to try, so he nods at a few of the guys, drops his bag in an empty stall, and walks over to Travis with his head held high and his shoulders squared.

“Hi,” Travis says immediately, cutting off a conversation he’d been having with Matt Strome. Matty? No, that’s Dylan. Matty, then. “You’re here.”

Lawson has to bite back a laugh. “Uh, yeah, you know. First day. Everyone’s here.”

Strome, at least, laughs. Travis’ face turns a comical shade of red. 

“Well, yeah,” he says, stomping on Strome’s foot. “I just meant. You’re here. You know …” 

The _talking to me_ goes unsaid, but Lawson hears it anyway. “Just trying to fit in,” he replies. He catches sight of his new coach walking through the door, so he offers Travis and Strome a goofy salute and adds, “See you out there.”

He tries not to think about Travis’ answering smile for the rest of the day.

 

 

The thing about the entire situation is that Lawson doesn’t really have the right to be petty, and yet he is. He never said to Travis, “ _hey, I really like you and possibly want to love you forever,_ ” in so many words, but he’s 162 percent certain that the sentiment got across. He’d bet the Cup on it.

But because he never told Travis, never said it explicitly - the fact that Travis went on to do bigger and better things in his career - ensures that Lawson is bitter and sad when he knows he shouldn’t be. Sometimes, that’s just how the world works.

Besides, he’s over it now. He’s made peace with what’s happened, got over his crush on Travis ages and ages ago. There’s nothing to it anymore.

Fitting into the team isn’t hard. Lawson’s always been a pretty friendly person, and he’s had a lot of practice making new friends the last few years. He’s back down on the third line again, but he didn’t really expect anything more. Getting to play top line minutes means he’s got to prove himself, and he hasn’t made it that far yet. 

The weirdest thing about the situation, Lawson thinks, is seeing Travis be the captain. It’s seeing everyone simultaneously adore him and defer to him. 

Sometime in all the years they were apart, Travis grew up, and Lawson feels a little like he got left behind.

He’s contemplating this thought at a salad bar down the street from his apartment when Travis drops into the seat across from him.

“Holy shit, you scared me,” Lawson says, ducking under the table to pick up the fork he’d dropped in surprise.

Travis offers him a goofy grin. “That’s your fault,” he says. “You startle too easily.”

Magnanimously, he does not bring up the Great Strawberry Debacle of 2009, for which Lawson is very grateful for. He gets himself another fork from the counter and then slides back into his seat. Travis is picking the mandarin orange slices out of his salad.

“Excuse me,” Lawson says, trying to stab at Travis’ fingers. 

It almost feels like nothing’s changed. Like they slid back in time or something. This is how they always used to be, and maybe they could just - do this. Pretend. That would be nice and easy.

“So, how’re things?” Travis asks, tucking his hands in his lap. His smile is still familiarly mischievous. “Settling in well?”

Lawson nods around a mouthful of salad. “Guys are nice and I’m playing alright, so I’d say it’s been pretty good.”

Travis hums thoughtfully. “Good, I’m glad.” He takes a sip of Lawson’s water and adds, “Also, I’m having some guys over this weekend after our game against Washington. You should come.”

It’s friendly, what a captain should do. There’s no reason to be suspicious about it. Still, Lawson can’t help but feel his stomach tighten in anticipation. “Okay,” he says, shoveling another forkful of greens into his mouth. “What should I bring?”

“Beer,” Travis replies immediately. “Maybe snacks? Or whatever. I don’t care. Just yourself?”

Just himself. And maybe some beer. Lawson can do that. Easy. He bobs his head and Travis offers him a small smile before his fingers snap another orange slice out of the salad. 

Just like nothing’s changed.

 

 

Everything has definitely changed.

Travis owns a house, for one. A big-ass house. It’s set out in the suburbs, which is kind of weird because Travis doesn’t have a girlfriend or a dog or an anything, really. But he does have a huge three-bedroom house out of the city that has a pool in the back and a barbeque. 

There’s already a lot of people at the party when Lawson arrives, which was a planned and calculated decision. Lawson has shown up an hour late just so he could avoid any awkward conversations with Travis. Instead, he gets awkward conversations with his other teammates instead.

Lawson drops off his case of beer in the kitchen and is almost immediately attacked by Carter Hart and Matt Strome. 

“Crouser, hi,” Carter says. He sounds like he’s already had several beers too many. Matty, for his part, at least looks mildly sober still.

“Hi,” Lawson says warily. He accepts the red solo cup that Matty hands him and eyes the contents suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“Jungle juice,” Matty replies, which is not very helpful and sounds mildly disturbing. Lawson pretends to sip at it and then makes a move to escape out the backdoor. 

Carter steps in front of him, still giggling mildly.

“Excuse me,” Lawson says.

Carter giggles harder.

“We’re having an intervention,” Matty says, and somehow, Lawson doesn’t think this is about Carter’s abysmal alcohol tolerance.

The thing about trying to have an intervention at a house party is that there isn’t really a good place to hold it without looking super suspicious. They end up sitting in the hallway between the kitchen and the front door.

“We’ll just tell people Carter needed to sit down,” Matty says when Carter slumps into Lawson’s side like an overgrown puppy. Then he adds, “Okay. So. You and the captain. Spill.”

Lawson raises one shoulder, wary of Carter practically asleep on his other. “What’s there to spill?” he asks cautiously.

“Dylan says you two used to be super tight,” Matty replies. “Now you’re acting like you barely know each other. Like, I know not all friendships last well across the league, but most guys aren’t as - stilted as you two.”

Lawson definitely needs to be way more inebriated for this conversation. It’s hard to forget that Matt is Dylan’s little brother, but he does forget that Dylan can’t keep anything to himself to save his life. And the fact that Dylan sat with him through the mess that was the first few years of Lawson’s career. 

“That’s all it is,” Lawson says, because it’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. “We just fell out of touch and we haven’t really connected again since this year.”

Matty frowns, like he most certainly does not believe Lawson at all. “Why’d you stop talking?” he asks, finally. “You guys grew up together, didn’t you?”

Close enough. They had spent countless childhoods together on Travis’ grandparents’ farm. But as they’d gotten older there had been girls and then blooming one-sided success and the rest, they say, is history. 

“I’m not sure if you’re fishing for reassurance for your own relationships,” Lawson says measuredly, “but history with someone doesn’t guarantee you a happily ever after.”

Matty’s face screws up, like he might cry. Another similarity he shares with his older brother then. Lawson gently pushes Carter off of him so that he’s propped up against the wall and goes to stand up, but Matty stops him.

“Fine, I asked TK about it.”

Lawson feels his eyes bug out of his head, which would be comical in about any other situation.

“What?” he asks, weakly, sitting down again.

“I asked TK what’s up with you guys and he said it was you,” Matty replies. “He said he tried and that he could’ve tried harder, but that you didn’t try at all. And now your sisters hate him and he never gets to see your family anymore.”

The way Matty talks about it makes it sound like they got a divorce. Lawson sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Listen,” Matty adds. “This is a team. And I know that you’re playing fine and whatever and the guys like you, but don’t forget, I watched you play in the World Juniors with my brother. You were good, Crouser. You can still be good. And you can do that here, with us. On the Flyers.”

Lawson watches as Matty stands. He contemplates Carter for a moment before shrugging and leaving him be and wandering back out to the rest of the party.

Lawson remains on the floor with Carter and his cup of jungle juice. It’s kind of a slap in the face, to get such a blatant kick in the butt from a teammate, but Lawson figures he deserves it. Matty is the second person to tell him to pick his life up. Once is a coincidence but twice is a habit, right?

Lawson sighs and gets to his feet. He leaves Carter slumped against the wall and hopes that Travis can find a bed for him later as he wanders out to the backyard.

Travis is standing next to the pool, talking with someone’s significant other. They look good together, Lawson thinks, in an abstract way. Travis has always looked good with all the girls he’s dated; they seem to fit together well like two puzzle pieces that compliment each other. They were all nice and sweet and adoring, not like Lawson. 

As if he can hear Lawson thinking about him, Travis’ head swivels in his direction. He catches sight of Lawson and smiles, this tiny, private thing that Lawson hasn’t seen in ages. It makes something in his heart ache, but he offers a small smile in return. Maybe things will be alright after all.

 

 

Travis finds him some time later when most of the guys have either gone home to their families or have passed out in one of Travis’ guest rooms. Lawson’s in the kitchen, dumping a bunch of empties into the sink so they can be rinsed out later.

“You don’t have to do that,” Travis says, leaning against the kitchen island. He’s acquired a ballcap sometime in the last couple hours. Lawson hates how good it looks on him.

“Just trying to be polite,” Lawson replies. He dries his hands on a kitchen towel hanging off the oven door and then mimics Travis’ pose.

“When’d you learn that?”

The silence is stifling. Lawson opens his mouth to answer, but can’t quite seem to find the words. During the time that they didn’t talk to each other? When they treated each other like strangers? When Lawson had tried not to mess up their friendship with his big gay feelings and then managed to do so anyway? 

“Uh, just, you know,” he says vaguely, too many seconds too late.

Travis nods. The smile slips off his face and he ducks his head. He looks tired, and Lawson is suddenly struck with the idea that maybe Travis has been faking it the last few weeks. The smiles and the friendliness. Maybe it’s all been a mask that Travis has worn for the team.

“What happened?” Travis asks finally. When he looks up at Lawson again he looks - small. He looks beaten down, and Lawson hates that. Travis has always been full of energy, overloaded with it. Feisty. Lawson hates being the reason that Travis frowns the way he’s doing now.

“Travis - “ he starts, but Travis shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “You owe me this. You’ve kept me in the dark all these years. We’re team now, Law.”

When Lawson had imagined how this confrontation would go, he hadn’t really pictured it to be in the kitchen of Travis’ swanky new Philly home, under bright lights and with the faucet dripping in the background. Then again, Lawson had sort of hoped that maybe they wouldn’t have this conversation at all.

But isn’t that just part of the problem? Running away from the problem? Lawson sighs, stares into Travis’ emploring expression like it will hold all the answers. It doesn’t, but it does make Travis look impossibly younger, like they’ve gone back in time to when they were 18 and had the world at their fingertips.

“Nothing happened, I guess,” Lawson finally settles on, which does nothing to ease Travis’ anger. 

“Law - “

“No, I mean, I had a crush on you when we were younger and nothing ever happened.”

Travis gapes at him, not unlike the kinds of fish that he goes out and catches and posts about on Instagram. 

“Oh, come on, you can’t be surprised,” Lawson says, scooping a couple more empties he spots on the far side of the kitchen island and dumping them into the sink. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Travis splutters a little. “I - well - “

“So, yeah,” Lawson says dully. Nothing he didn’t know then.

“Law.”

Lawson turns around from the sink and sizes Travis up. Travis looks caught between embarrassment and sadness. 

“It’s fine,” Lawson says, waving his hand. “I got over it a while ago. I know better than to fall for a straight guy, now.”

Travis’ face scrunches up. It looks - weird. “Why do you assume I’m straight?” he asks, which - Lawson laughs. He can’t help it. 

“Have you seen yourself?” he asks, gesturing to where Travis is standing wearing a pair of navy board shorts and a red and black plaid shirt open over his bare chest. “And your Instagram? And just - the way you talk?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Travis asks, putting his hands on his hips. “I could be gay!”

“But you’re not.”

“Well. No. I’m not - “ Lawson nods. “ - but I think I like guys.”

And. Well. Ain’t that just the kicker.

Lawson’s so surprised he drops the plate he’d been holding. Luckily, it’s some cheap melamine thing from Target so all it does is clatter noisily against the hardwood, but it’s a rather poetic sort of action. Like a movie.

“Yeah?” Lawson asks, suddenly registering the nervous look on Travis’ face.

“Yeah,” Travis breathes. 

Lawson wonders, idly, if Travis has ever told anyone this or if he’s the first. He can’t imagine why he would be, except for the fact that he’s potentially one of the only gay people Travis knows and therefore wouldn’t be weirded out by the confession.

“Okay, well, good. Cool,” Lawson says. He leans down and picks up the plate.

Travis fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “So,” he says, then pauses. “That whole falling for a straight guy thing?”

Lawson sighs and rinses the plate off before leaving it in the sink. Travis can wash it tomorrow. Or maybe make Carter do it. “You mean, because you’re not straight,” he says. He turns around, takes in Travis’ hopeful expression. “I guess I should say that I know better than to fall for you.”

He offers Travis a small smile with it, tries to tamp down the way his heart is beating painfully against his rib cage. He wonders if Travis can hear the lie in his words, can still call his bluff even after all these years.

By the look of the small smile on Travis’ lips, Lawson guesses he still can. 

 

Things - things start to look up.

They’re a couple months into the season and Lawson isn’t putting up career numbers or anything, but he’s doing alright. He’s playing steadily and he’s made his presence known on the ice. His teammates like him and the Flyers overall are poised to take a playoff spot, barring any impending disasters.

So, it’s not like he’s doing poorly or anything, but it still surprises him when he gets to practice one morning in early December and Coach says, “Crouse. Top line with TK and Coots.”

“Uh,” Lawson says, ignoring the backslaps he gets from his teammates. “Alright.”

He wishes he could say that playing with Travis on the other wing again is some mighty revelation and his hockey suddenly gets a million times better, but it’s difficult. Adjusting to new linemates always is. But, there are some things that Travis does that he’s been doing since they were teenagers - sees the ice in a way that Lawson never could, and makes plays that Lawson only understands when the puck is coming off his own stick and flying into the back of the net. That, at least, is easy.

“Not bad,” Coach says as their line comes back from their odd-man-rush exercise. “If you keep making plays like that, I think I’ll put this line in against Buffalo next game.”

Lawson doesn’t feel much of anything at that, but Travis looks over at him and beams wildly, like this is his own accomplishment. He trails after Lawson through the rest of practice, and judging from the weird eyebrow wiggling Matty is sending their way, it’s not going unnoticed. 

“It’s kind of like I’ve gained another, smaller shadow,” Lawson says when he sits down in his locker at the end of practice and Travis is still hovering around him. He doesn’t even scowl at the jab against his height. 

“I’m just - happy,” Travis admits. When Lawson raises an eyebrow at him, Travis adds, “To be playing on a line again with you.”

It reminds Lawson of what Travis had said when he’d first came to Philly to sign the papers. How Travis had been longing for this opportunity. He feels bad that he can’t admit the same, but there is a sense of excitement in being able to play on the first line again. To be regarded in a positive way.

“Yeah,” Lawson offers lamely. “It should be good.” And then, because he has no self-preservation instincts, apparently, he asks: “Do you want to get lunch?”

If possible, Travis’ smile gets even bigger. “Yeah, okay,” he says, already scrambling back to his stall. “That sounds great.” 

He doesn’t say anything else to Lawson, easily falling into conversation with Ghost, and Lawson gets back to work on removing all his sweaty gear. This feels like a step in the right direction, at least, with both his hockey and his relationship with Travis, so he’s all smiles by the time he and Travis amble out to the parking lot. 

 

 

Things sort of remain in a stasis after that. Lawson bounces between the lines, but Coach has good things to say to him and his teammates seem pleased to play with him. Lawson can recall a few different linemates he’d had who’d been - less than enthused to be stuck with him on their wing.

He goes out to lunch with Travis semi-regularly. It seems safer than hanging out after practice at Travis’ mansion in the suburbs or Lawson’s half-unpacked apartment downtown. After Travis’ confession at his party, Lawson’s been - wary. He knows what he looks like to people who have been closeted for a while: sure of himself and single. And Lawson certainly doesn’t want Travis to think that they’re compatible just because Lawson had a raging crush on him years ago.

Which is not the same thing as saying that Lawson doesn’t want to date Travis now. He’d come to that realization in the shower one afternoon, and nearly slipped and fell.

Time and distance definitely helped cure Lawson of most _feelings_ he had for Travis over the years, but it seemed like the concept worked in reverse as well. The more time Lawson spent with Travis, the more he remembered just exactly _why_ he had liked Travis in the first place. It’s like falling all over again.

“You’re a walking disaster,” Kyla says over the phone to him shortly after the Christmas break. Lawson had gone home to see his family, but Kyla had gone on vacation somewhere warm and Sarah had been sick the whole time, so he hadn’t seen either of his sisters. He’s settling now for Facetime.

“Look, if I could make myself not crush on him, I would,” Lawson replies. He’s got the phone propped up against the microwave above the stove while he pushes some swiss chard around a pan. Not the most delicious of meals, but it’s healthy. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Law?” Sarah asks gently. “Like, spending all this time with TK?”

“Well, no. But it’s not like I can avoid him at the rink or anything.”

“So you invite him out for lunch every other day to make up for it,” Kyla says, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, you’re ridiculous.”

“I just want things to be normal between us,” Lawson complains. He turns off the heat under the swiss chard and dumps the greens onto a plate with a chicken breast waiting. “He basically confessed that he’s interested in me and - I don’t know what to do with that, I guess.”

The girls are silent for a moment - a rarity that Lawson will cherish - before Sarah says, “Isn’t this pretty much how things were when it was the other way around?”

Which - well. Maybe. 

“But he didn’t _know_ ,” Lawson whines. Both of his sisters roll their eyes.

“Law, you’re basically doing the exact same thing TK did to you years ago. If you want things to go back to normal, you have to say something. If you want to be more, you have to say something. You can’t just leave each other in limbo like this!”

Lawson hates when his sisters are right, and he especially hates when Kyla is right. Sarah’s a mother now. She should at least have some sage advice to offer. But when Kyla starts berating him, it makes Lawson feel like a small child. 

“I mean, I could,” he says. “I might not be here next year anyway, and then what good what it do us?”

Kyla’s little square on his phone abruptly shows the ceiling, like Kyla’s just thrown her arms up in protest. “What did I tell you this summer?” she screeches.

There’s a bustling sound from Sarah’s end of the phone. “Mommy, is that Auntie Kyla?”

Sarah sighs. Lawson and Kyla both snicker. “Yes, Abby. Go back to your movie.”

“Hi, Auntie Kyla!” Abby shouts, before all they can hear is the sound of her running back through the house.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Lawson grumbles. He pokes sadly at his swiss chard.

“No, just quiet,” Sarah replies. She glances at something above her phone and adds, “I should probably get going anyway. Sort out your issues with TK, Law.”

Lawson doesn’t really want to stay on the line with just Kyla watching him eat his terribly bland dinner, so he says, “Okay. I better get going too.”

Kyla gives him the stink eye, like she knows exactly why he’s signing off. “Love yourself,” she says accusingly, jabbing her finger at the camera. “You’re playing on the top line now, buster. Time to stop the pity party.”

Lawson rolls his eyes and hangs up before Kyla gets a chance to say anything else. He finishes his dinner mechanically, barely tasting anything while he replays the conversation back.

He hates the idea that he’s treating Travis the same way Travis himself had treated Lawson when they were younger, but now that he’s been called out on it, it’s all Lawson can see. The idea of a confrontation is scary, but Lawson figures he better get to it sometime.

He checks the calendar on the wall. It’s mid-January and the Flyers are currently fighting off everyone who’s chasing down their tentative playoff spot. Things are busy. But there is a space of time coming up that might do just the trick. During the All-Star Break, Lawson thinks to himself, before slumping onto the couch to browse through Netflix.

 

 

Lawson’s playing his sixth game on a line with Travis when the inevitable happens.

It’s their last game before the All-Star Break - a.k.a., Lawson’s self-imposed deadline - and everyone is rearing for the chance to get out of the rink and just relax. Sure, they all love their jobs, but there’s something enticing about getting to spend three days off doing absolutely nothing.

Lawson’s skating down the right-side boards when he sees Coots pick up the puck from the defensemen and head back the other way. He joins the rush, watches as Coots passes the puck to his left onto Travis’ stick.

Lawson wishes that it weren’t so cliched, but he watches everything unfold in slow motion. There’s no other way to describe the way he sees, in crystal clarity, the play that Travis is setting up. So Lawson puts himself in the high slot, tries not to draw attention to himself, and then hammers in the one-timer when Travis sends it straight through two defenders and Coots onto his stick.

“Fucking ace!” Travis shouts, literally jumping on the dog pile that’s mobbed Lawson. “Fuck yeah!”

Lawson can’t help but laugh, caught up in the adrenaline and the good feelings. He slings his arm across Travis’ shoulders briefly, squeezing him in lieu of a verbal _thank you_. They’ve played this game long enough to know what it means.

Matty scores one more goal in the third to seal the deal and then they’re trudging off the ice towards the locker room and freedom. Or, in Lawson’s case, an uncomfortable conversation.

“You coming out tonight?” Coots asks him in the room before Lawson heads off to the showers.

Lawson thinks about it, catches Travis’ eye from across the room. Travis offers him an encouraging smile, so Lawson says, “Sure. Why not?”

Coots rolls his eyes. “You don’t need permission from the cap to come out with us,” he complains, but he punches Lawson’s arm good-naturedly. It’s supposed to be playful, but mostly it just sort of hurts. 

He doesn’t need Travis’ permission, but he wants the opportunity to ask Travis if he’s busy over the break. Lawson trudges into the showers and tries to take all his joy and happiness from the game and channel it into some form of courage. Obviously they need to talk, but Lawson isn’t really sure how it’s going to go. 

Does he want a relationship with Travis? Maybe. Probably. He hasn’t spent a lot of time thinking about how he feels about Travis since he came to Philly, but Lawson thinks he probably, definitely likes him. _Like_ likes him. But he hadn’t been lying when he’d said to his sisters that he might not even be in Philly next year. What if he gets sent to California? That’s pretty far away. 

But the idea of not taking the chance that might be right in front him feels - not right. Lawson doesn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least try.

“Hey.”

Lawson jumps and just about slips, grabbing onto the soap dish to keep himself from falling. It groans ominously under his weight.

“Jesus, don't’ sneak up on me like that,” Lawson says. “I’d like to have a more dignified death than cracking my head open in a communal shower.”

Travis snickers. He’s very obviously staring at Lawson’s face and not anywhere else, which Lawson would find amusing if he weren’t so self-conscious. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t drowned yourself,” Travis says. “C’mon. Hurry up.”

He doesn’t wait for Lawson to follow, just disappears back out into the locker room. Lawson takes a moment to wash the shampoo out of his hair before drying off and following. He almost expected Travis to not be there, to have left for the bar already, but Travis is sitting in the empty stall next to Lawson’s fiddling with his phone. He grins at something Matty says to him in passing, tipping his head back in laughter, and Lawson just about drops his towel by accident.

He can’t help but stare at the long line of Travis’ throat, the way his smile seems too big for his face, from how wide it is. It’s the same Travis that he’s known his entire life, but somehow, in this moment, everything seems different. More focused.

How could Lawson ever have fooled himself into thinking his feelings for Travis were anything but casual? That it was just a crush and not some soul-crushing amount of love. Like he had actually moved on instead of just burying his feelings under many years of hurt and anger. How could he have missed it?

But he has his life settled. His hockey is better, he’s getting more ice time. He’s having fun for the first time in years. Lawson hates how cliched it sounds, but maybe he really did have to love himself before he could love someone else. 

“Crouser, don’t just stand there,” someone says, slapping his back. “Put some goddamn clothes on.”

The boys left in the room whistle at him and Lawson flushes. He knows the colour will go all the way down his chest, which only makes him blush harder. Curse his fair, freckled skin. 

Travis is grinning at him when he finally wanders back over to his stall. It makes Lawson’s stomach flip over nervously. His epiphany was not exactly welcome, and it certainly didn’t pick a great time to make itself known.

“What’s with you?” Travis asks, laughing. “You scored a goal tonight and you’re just - “ He waves his hand around his head vaguely, like he’s trying to describe how spacey Lawson’s been without words. Luckily, Lawson gets the message. 

“I, uh.” Lawson fumbles with his words at the same time he fumbles with his clothes. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Travis raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be my line,” he says, “but I won’t turn a free drink.”

Lawson manages to get all his clothes on the correct way. “Okay,” he says. “Great.”

Someone calls for Travis from across the room. Travis glances over quickly, then sighs. “I’ll see you at the bar?” he asks. Lawson nods. This is better. Now he’ll have time to come up with a game plan for confessing his feelings. Should be easy.

 

 

It is not, in fact, easy.

If it were easy, Lawson muses, he would have done it when he was 18. As such, he’s sitting in the parking lot at the bar with his phone pressed to his ear, hoping Sarah will pick up. 

“It’s late and the girls are asleep,” Sarah says, which basically translates to, _it’s late and I wish_ I _were asleep_. 

“I’m having a crisis,” Lawson replies. “Consider this practice for when your babies turn into teenagers.”

He knows Sarah’s frowning. “Then what the hell was my entire adolescence for?” she mutters. “Fielding you and Kyla all the time.” Which. Fair enough, but - 

“I’m having a here and now crisis about Travis Konecny are you going to help me or not?”

“Oh my god, Law. Fine.”

Lawson can see some of his teammates wandering into the bar. He knows he doesn’t have much time before Travis realizes he hasn’t arrived yet, and only a few minutes after that before it becomes suspicious.

“Okay, so, I probably never really got over TK at any point,” Lawson begins. “Like. I sort of moved on? But the feelings were always there? Like a volcano. The ones that don’t erupt regularly but aren’t classified as dead or whatever?”

“Dormant.”

“Right, right. So, like, I had this epiphany today when I was getting out of the shower - “

“What!”

“Shh, don’t interrupt. Anyway. Epiphany. And now it’s the All-Star break and I want to ask him if he wants to hang out? But not as bros. But like - “

“Bros that bone?”

“Sarah!” Lawson shakes his head. Usually it’s Kyla that says dumb things like _bros that bone_. That’s why he called Sarah in the first place. “I just. I like him a lot. I always have. But I think I need you to resurrect my self-preservation instincts because what if I just. Say the wrong thing?”

Lawson can imagine Sarah pinching the bridge of her nose. She always does it when she’s particularly exasperated by her children - or her siblings. It sends a wash of fondness through Lawson that helps ease the aussage of panic.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “First of all, you’re an idiot but you’re also right; you have the self-preservation instincts of a particularly meek puppy.”

Fair. Lawson’s been told if he turned into an animal he’d be a golden retriever.

“Second, you definitely just need to sit down and talk everything out. Like, literally, everything. I know you confessed a few things, but the main reason you guys are in this mess is because you don’t know how to talk to each other.”

“Right. Communication is key.” 

“Lawson, take this seriously.”

“I am!” Lawson replies, and then cringes at how hysterical he sounds. The more Sarah talks, the more pressure he feels.

“Look, just invite him over during the break and then sit him down and tell him that you like him, but like, lay some ground rules down. Like how you won’t be his experiment or whatever.”

Lawson catches sight of movement at the door of the bar. It’s Travis, stepping outside. He looks around, and Lawson takes a moment to pull his phone away from his ear and check the notifications. He’s got six text messages from Travis. Time to bite the bullet.

“I have to go,” he says, putting the phone back to his ear. “I - Thanks, Sarah. Really.”

Sarah hums. “Anything for my baby brother,” she replies, then adds, “but seriously, Law. It’s not an issue. I just want you to be happy.”

It’s an eerily similar sentiment to what Kyla had told him before the beginning of the season. Lawson wouldn’t put it past his sisters to have discussed him in their spare time, but he also suspects that he was probably just zombie-like enough for them both to achieve this conclusion on their own.

Well, if all goes well over the weekend, he’ll soothe both of their worries.

 

 

Lawson wakes up the next morning with a raging headache and no recollection of how he ended up horizontal and _where_ he ended up horizontal. He hasn’t been this hungover since the time he, Dylan, Nick took a road trip to Vegas at the end of one season and went a little overboard on the drinks.

He cracks his eyes open and then immediately regrets the decision. It’s so bright out. Lawson goes to roll over, mostly to bury his head in the pillow, but he rolls into something else. Or, someone. That gets Lawson’s eyes open in a hurry.

Through all the squinting, Lawson catches a glimpse of brown hair peeking up from under the comforter. The hair shifts, and the person rolls over, and Lawson is simultaneously overjoyed and horrified to find that it’s Travis. In his bed. With Lawson still in it.

Lawson rolls over onto his back and prays for some guidance.

“Ugh,” Travis groans; it sounds vaguely pornographic. Lawson prays a little harder.

They remain silent for a few minutes longer before Travis rolls over and says, “What time is it?”

Lawson glances at the clock on the bedside table. It tells him it’s two in the afternoon, and also informs him that he is, indeed, at home and not in some random motel three counties over. “Two pm.”

Travis groans again. Lawson wishes he’d stop doing that. It’s not helping his weird feelings from the night before. “I haven’t been this hungover in ages.”

Lawson hums, turning his head. Travis still has his eyes closed, face turned up towards the ceiling. “Um. Do you remember much from last night?”

Travis laughs a little, this little huff of sound that reminds Lawson of countless childhood sleepovers where they tried to muffle their giggles so as not to wake anyone else up. Lawson is so stupidly fond.

“I think you came into the bar and blurted out you love me and then did tequila shots.”

Well. Maybe not so fond.

“What?” Lawson exclaims, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t spoken to loudly. Apparently the sound of his own voice is enough to make him feel vaguely nauseous. That or it’s the reveal that he made a huge confession last night and then immediately tried to drown himself in liquor. 

Travis laughs again. “I didn’t think much of it,” he replies. “Don’t worry. I get it.”

“What?” Lawson is starting to sound like a broken record, probably.

Travis shifts, rolling over so that he can face Lawson. “I mean, we’re us,” he says. “You’re my best friend, Law. Even after all the time and the silence and the bullshit, I always thought of you as my best friend. I love you like you’re part of my family.”

Lawson gets that. Even in his deepest throes of bitterness, he’s never truly hated Travis. 

“That’s - that’s probably not what I meant, though,” Lawson says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Last night, that is.”

“Oh?”

It’s now or never; the do-or-die situation that Lawson has essentially been avoiding for the entirety of his adulthood. He suddenly understands why all the romance movies in the world seem to follow the same plot of miscommunication: this shit is hard. 

“Like. I guess I was just sort of feeling sorry for myself back when I was 18 or 19 because I knew you’d never like me back. And then hockey wasn’t going the way I wanted and I’ve been bouncing around for a while and you’ve just - you’ve just been here. Doing great things and being the captain and whatnot. I guess all of that just added up to a whole lot of resentment and feeling like I wasn’t good enough.” Lawson inhales shakily. He can’t look at Travis now if he wants to get the last bit out. 

“I think I convinced myself that I hated you because I was so jealous of all the things you had that I couldn’t: the steady contract and the captaincy and - relationships that you could flaunt on Instagram and whatever. But I couldn’t really hate you, Trav.”

It feels - weird, to confess the things that Lawson has always, always known about himself and yet never felt comfortable voicing. There isn’t necessarily a weight lifted off his shoulders, but it feels nice to have released his demons out into the world.

Beside him, Travis is quiet, mulling over Lawson’s words. When Lawson finally turns to look at him, Travis is blinking sleepily back at him.

“I can’t tell you anything that will make the last three or four years less shitty,” he says finally. “The hockey stuff sucks, but I meant what I said ages ago: I wanted you here. I’ve always wanted you here, even when I wasn’t sure why.”

Lawson sighs. “I think - I like it here. I like the guys and I’m starting to feel like I’m playing some decent hockey again. I want to stay here, but that’s not always up to me.”

And now, for the grand finale. 

“I like you a lot, TK,” Lawson says. The nickname almost feels foreign on his lips; he hasn’t used it much since he came to Philly, or at least, not to Travis’ face. “But I’m afraid of not sticking around next year. I’m scared of the distance.”

There’s the sound of sheets rustling and then a soft touch to Lawson’s arm under the covers. He startles slightly, turning to look at Travis as he slides closer until Travis is curled into his side. It’s - nice. Feels easy and simple, the same way their friendship has always been. It makes the future of their relationship feel less daunting. 

“I didn’t know I liked guys,” Travis says after a long moment. He rests his chin on Lawson’s chest and stares up at him with big brown eyes. Lawson thinks he’d probably do anything if Travis looked at him all imploringly like that. “Like, I never had a problem with you liking guys, but I never thought to myself, _hey, Travis, maybe you’d like some dick too._ ” 

Lawson makes a face, which Travis laughs at. “It was probably around the time we stopped talking. I missed you a lot as a friend, but I knew you were going through a tough time, so I wanted to give you space. It was when I started wanting to comfort you and reassure you and just _listen_ to you that made me think that maybe things were - a little different.”

It’s weird listening to Travis detail the moment he started falling for him. Lawson doesn’t really remember the transition period where Travis went from being his best friend to being the object of his affection; for all intents and purposes, he might as well just say he loved Travis from the beginning. 

“And now?” he asks, trying not to sound too much like he’s fishing for compliments. Clearly, it doesn’t work, because Travis rolls his eyes. 

“And now all my feelings seem to bulldoze me everytime we’re together,” Travis huffs. 

It seems like a bit of a lacklustre reveal, but Lawson figures it can’t always be dramatic like the movies. Sometimes it’s more about being on the same page than the flashy confession.

“Oh, good,” Lawson says. He hooks an arm around Travis’ waist and tugs him in a little closer. “I was worried I was the only one with stupid feelings here.”

Travis giggles, tucking his face against Lawson’s shoulder. Despite the headache, Lawson thinks that the cuddling is pretty nice. He could definitely get used to it. 

“We’ll be a little smarter about things this time, won’t we?” Travis asks, after a moment. 

“I mean, we’re already off to a better start,” Lawson says. “We’ve admitted we like each other. So there’s that.”

Travis swats at Lawson’s chest. “You know what I mean,” he grumbles.

Lawson does. Because being a little smarter about a relationship with Travis means being a little smarter about himself too. Whether he wanted to or not, he’s learned a lot about himself since coming to Philadelphia, and he’s learned to like himself a little more again. He thinks Kyla would probably be proud of him. At this rate, Lawson’s well on his way to loving himself by the end of the season, give or take.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the top of Travis’ head. Travis makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. “I know exactly what you mean.”

 

 

“Travis?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you end up in my bed?”

“How the fuck do you think you got home, you loser?”

“Okay. I guess I had that one coming.”

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](http://lilcrickee.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/lilcrickee)!


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